‘His reverence, Dr. Walsingham.’

And so it came out, that having purchased Salmonfalls, the rector had compromised the territorial war that was on the point of breaking out among his parishioners, by exchanging with that old coxcomb Langley, the great square pew over the way, that belonged to that house, for the queer little crib in which the tenant of Inchicore had hitherto sat in state; and so there was peace, if not good will, in the church.

‘Hey—­let’s see it,’ said Dangerfield, crossing the aisle, with Irons at his heels, for he was a man that saw everything for himself, that ever so remotely concerned him or his business.

‘We buried Lord ——­’ (and the title he spoke very low) ’in the vault here, just under where you stand, on Monday last, by night,’ said Irons, very gently and grimly, as he stood behind Dangerfield.

A faint galvanic thrill shot up through the flagging and his firmly planted foot to his brain, as though something said, ‘Ay, here I am!’

‘Oh! indeed?’ said Dangerfield, dryly, making a little nod, and raising his eyebrows, and just moving a little a one side—­’’Twas a nasty affair.’

He looked up, with his hands in his breeches’ pockets, and read a mural tablet, whistling scarce audibly the while.  It was not reverent, but he was a gentleman; and the clerk standing behind him, retained his quiet posture, and that smile, that yet was not a smile, but a sort of reflected light—­was it patience, or was it secret ridicule?—­you could not tell:  and it never changed, and somehow it was provoking.

‘And some persons, I believe, had an unpleasant duty to do there,’ said Dangerfield, abruptly, in the middle of his tune, and turning his spectacles fully and sternly on Mr. Irons.

The clerk’s head bent lower, and he shook it; and his eyes, but for a little glitter through the eyelashes, seemed to close.

’’Tis a pretty church, this—­a pretty town, and some good families in the neighbourhood,’ said Dangerfield, briskly; ’and I dare say some trout in the river—­hey?—­the stream looks lively.’

’Middling, only—­poor gray troutlings, Sir—­not a soul cares to fish it but myself,’ he answered.

‘You’re the clerk—­eh?’

‘At your service, Sir.’

‘Dublin man?—­or—­’

‘Born and bred in Dublin, your honour.’

’Ay—­well!  Irons—­you’ve heard of Mr. Dangerfield—­Lord Castlemallard’s agent—­I am he.  Good-morning, Irons;’ and he gave him half-a-crown, and he took another look round; and then he and Nutter went out of the church, and took a hasty leave of one another, and away went Nutter on his nag, to the mills.  And Dangerfield, just before mounting, popped into Cleary’s shop, and in his grim, laconic way, asked the proprietor, among his meal-bags and bacon, about fifty questions in less than five minutes.  ’That was one of Lord Castlemallard’s houses—­eh—­with the bad roof, and manure-heap round the corner?’—­and,